


Kinesic

by maren



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M, post-episode, the good wife - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 04:10:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maren/pseuds/maren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His body speaks and she listens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kinesic

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by [](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=sarmoti)[**sarmoti**](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=sarmoti) who said that she wanted to see the aftermath of _Unfinished Business_ with Dee and/or Anders, as well as by [](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=indigo419)[**indigo419**](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=indigo419)'s excellent new Kara/Lee post-UB fic. Un-beta'd-- feel free to point out errors.

**Kinesic**

She can't see his face but she doesn't need to.

The tension in his shoulders tells her everything she needs to know, tells her who her husband is watching. There are knots in the muscle, cords of tissue that went rock hard the moment Starbuck showed up at the dance and she's been with him long enough to read his body effortlessly. She's had him under her hands when he wanted to end it all, when he was weighed down with the burden of command, when he'd sacrificed his ship for the colonists. This is. . . this is. . .

Not different. And it should be because Lee married _her_ and they're happy, comfortable, good for each other.

She keeps her face passive, keeps her fingers moving and digging and if it's more about reminding him that she's here than trying to keep him loose, well, no one else needs to know.

*

She wears the mask as long as possible, wears it until the pressure behind her eyes builds to a crest and then she abandons the calm indifference and concentrates on breathing back the tears. She can feel the terrible lines of doubt and grief that are creasing her face but she thinks if she can just not cry, her humiliation will be incomplete.

Starbuck's . . . whatever he is these days . . . sidles up to stand at her side and watch the show. He says something completely oblivious and she feels a flash of irritation, says something back that she can't remember a second later.

She's cold, stupidly cold given the press of bodies around her and the heat that's coming off of the circling figures in the ring in waves. But every rivulet of sweat that runs down Lee's temples sends a stab of ice through her blood and she has to wrap her arms around her chest to keep from shivering.

Everything seems to happen in slow motion, which somehow seems right since it's been going on for so long already, longer even than she thinks she knew. She watches them unleashing their anger on each other but with each contact of glove on flesh there's a different kind of connection being made, something too big and raw to be contained within the ring. It spreads, pushes the spectators away, pushes Sam away too and she envies him for how easy he goes.

She stays. That's what she's good at, what she's always been good at—loyalty, responsibility, any other number of virtues that make her a good military asset and an even better wife. It's the kind of thing that makes Lee proud and she clings to it even as it twists, knife sharp, in her gut.

The room is almost clear when the tears that have been welling for these endless moments spill.

It doesn't matter, after all. Her humiliation was complete the day she'd married him.

She just hadn't realized it until now.

*

And then it's over.

Except, it isn't. Doc Cottle might be pulling her husband out of Starbuck's arms to check their injuries but she knows it isn't over, not by a long shot. Lee's gloved hand is still hanging on her hip and Starbuck isn't moving, not until Helo jumps into the ring and pulls her away.

She rubs her arms, dips her face to stare at the dirty metal floor and fights for composure. When she feels the hand fall on her shoulder she jumps, looks up startled to find Lee standing next to her looking bloodied but not broken and suddenly she wants to hit him harder than she's ever wanted to hit anything in her life.

Wants to be the one to break him, for once.

Instead she tilts her head and tries to smile, makes a stupid little sound of sympathy low in her throat and walks with him out of the gym.

They walk _Galactica_ in silence and when Lee tells her he wants to stop by to check on the Admiral before hitting the rack, she nods and tells him she'll see him in their quarters. She watches him move down the hall, his back strong and unmarked, his shoulders straight and almost relaxed.

She realizes there are things about him that she will never know and in that moment she wishes the language of his body was one of them.

*

The observation deck is empty this time of night.

She chooses her seat carefully, settles back into it and closes her eyes. It smells stale in here, unused, and she lets her mind wander back to the days when watching the CAP still counted as entertainment. Now there's no one left who is all that impressed with Vipers and stupid tricks that waste precious resources but she remembers what it was like to look through the observation window and feel a certain level of anticipation.

Remembers what it was like to feel the vicarious thrill of a civilian, seeing the pilots in action in real space for the first time and how easy it was to hitch a ride on that excitement. She remembers being able to forget, for just a moment, what it was like to be the only witness to a pilot's last scream.

She chose her seat carefully.

It's far from the only deliberate choice she's made in her life. The military had been a calculated _frak you_ to her father, specializing in communications had been a conscious attempt at making a career of it, and Lee. . .

Gods, she wants to wish she chose someone else.

*

When she opens the hatch to their tiny quarters she can hear the thrum of the shower.

She's glad for the extra moments of privacy, more glad that the freshest evidence of Starbuck will be washed away by the time she seems him next. There's a trail of dirty clothes on the floor, like he was too exhausted to undress in his typical meticulous routine. She picks up his discarded tanks and pants, feels the wet of sweat and blood on her hands and suddenly wants, _needs_ to scrub it off her skin.

The hatch to their small private head is cracked open and as she begins to swing it wide enough to pass through she hears him moan.

She freezes but her mind races ahead, heedless and cruel. _He isn't . . . he can't . . . he isn't . . . _

Another sound, not quite the same but the knot that's been in her stomach all night blooms, gurgles and threatens to erupt. She sucks in a deep breath, clamps a trembling hand over her mouth and even though her mind screams at her not to do it she pushes her way inside and looks, to be sure.

His hands are braced against the back wall of the shower stall, head bowed and eyes closed, tight and terrible. Another sound, and this time her mind stops racing because she was wrong, so so wrong.

He's standing under the steaming hot spray and sobbing, shuddering with something that looks like relief and release.

Somehow it's so much worse.

*

The mattress feels thin as paper under her and her skin scrapes against the bedding as she turns on her side to face the wall. She closes her eyes and prays to the gods that she'll be able to sleep and that when she wakes up her heart won't feel so raw.

He's quiet when he comes out of the head and she makes sure her breathing is even, measured, as she listens to him dress in the dark. The bed dips beside her and she can smell the slightly metal tang of the ship's water and Lee's warm skin.

She's always loved the way he smells, the maleness and the sweat and the hint of sour on the few occasions he's had too much to drink. Now she can't help but imagine the scent of blood and tears and _Starbuck_ mingling on his skin.

It's a fight not to flinch when he shifts behind her and slides his arm over her hips, when he pushes his nose into her hair and kisses her scalp.

They lie together in silence and she thinks of all the nights they've fallen asleep in one another's arms over the past months, of the moments of peace and relaxation and lightness they've found in their bed. She's allowed herself to believe that it would be enough for him because it's been enough for her.

She can feel the remnants of tension in his forearm as it rests against her, the lingering tightness in the chest against her back. One deep breath and she turns in his arms, slips one leg through his and presses her face to his chest. Her arm loops over his waist and she rubs slow, soothing circles on the bare skin of his back until he sighs and relaxes his cheek against the crown of her head.

This is her husband, and she comforts him.

This is who she is.

\-----End


End file.
